Brightest season for the mind, Vigorous, free, and unconfin'd, Golden age of human kind. Still at variance with thy charms Death's eternal empire stands-- _Hymen_, come--while rapture warms, And give Lucinda to my arms. MAC SWIGGEN[144] A SATIRE Written 1775 Long have I sat on this disast'rous shore, And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'er To Europe's towns, where, as our travellers say, Poets may flourish, or, perhaps they may; But such abuse has from your coarse pen fell I think I may defer my voyage as well; Why should I far in search of honour roam, And dunces leave to triumph here at home? Great Jove in wrath a spark of genius gave. And bade me drink the mad Pierian wave, Hence came these rhimes, with truth ascrib'd to me, That swell thy little soul to jealousy:[145] If thus, tormented at these flighty lays, You strive to blast what ne'er was meant for praise, How will you bear the more exalted rhime, By labour polish'd, and matur'd by time? Devoted madman! what inspir'd thy rage, Who bade thy foolish muse with me engage? Against a wind-mill would'st thou try thy might, Against a giant[146] would a pigmy fight? What could thy slanderous pen with malice arm To injure him, who never did thee harm?[147] Have I from thee been urgent to attain The mean ideas of thy barren brain? Have I been seen in borrowed clothes to shine, And, when detected, swear by Jove they're mine? O miscreant, hostile to thine own repose, From thy own envy thy destruction flows! Bless'd be our western world--its scenes conspire To raise a poet's fancy and his fire, Lo, blue-topt mountains to the skies ascend! Lo, shady forests to the breezes bend! See mighty streams meandering to the main! See lambs and lambkins sport on every plain! The spotted herds in flowery meadows see! But what, ungenerous wretch, are these to thee?-- You find no charms in all that nature yields, Then leave to me the grottoes and the fields: I interfere not with your vast design-- Pursue your studies, and I'll follow mine, Pursue, well pleas'd, your theologic schemes, Attend professors, and correct your themes, Still some dull nonsense, low-bred wit invent, Or prove from scripture what it never meant, Or far through law, that land of scoundrels, stray, And truth disguise through all your mazy way; Wealth you may gain, your clients you may squeeze, And by long cheating, learn to live at ease; If but in Wood or Littleton well read, The devil shall help you to your daily bread. O waft me far, ye muses of the west-- Give me your green bowers and soft seats of rest-- Thrice happy in those dear retreats to find A safe retirement from all human kind. Though dire misfortunes every step attend, The muse, still social, still remains a friend-- In solitude her converse gives delight, With gay poetic dreams she cheers the night,